Tenancy.

A sparrow knows more than its song-

Its wings know to weave monsoons

out of springtime like nests out of willow.

This morning it passes my window

six times, while the house, starkly tenured,

carves its shape out of the buoyancy.

To occupy is to haunt the material,

I beat the rug and straighten the frames,

then I stack the iron pans. I wake the old hound

but he only folds his paws over like a dead man.

The mess of rooms like eager creatures

perch towards the forthcoming light.

I am awake, too, but cowardly. A man

in tan boots with the arms of my son

wants to love me. The old hound

in the corner twitches when he does.

I listen for the sparrow’s refrain, and how

it draws in the spring storms. As

the wind picks up the hound howls

for warmth. He sits at my side,

eyes bright.

Feathers fall, not float, from the sky.

We think it’s brimstone in wispy disguise.

-Please don't steal this (not that you'd want to, but I've seen it happen before)